Letters from home. Correspondence from my grandfather to his children in the 40s and 50s

Dick Stoyle is going around somewhat at loose ends. His term of office as Master Councilor is rapidly drawing to a close and before anyone realizes it he will be loafing around with nothing to do. His father, the well-known Lewis E. Stoyle, outstanding citizen of the South Shore has news for him. There is the little matter of finishing a painting job in Richard’s bedroom.

Dick and his father recently attended a father and son night run by the Taleb Grotto. As Master Councilor of Old Colony Chapter of DeMolay, Dick was called upon for a speech. When he had finished the air was filled with tumultuous applause, fezzes were thrown as high as the ceiling and the audience rose as one man in spontaneous appreciation. “The boy’s got the gift of gab,” one man said. Ray Warmington said “He’ll be a politician one of these days.” “A second Gladstone,” another man was heard to murmur. “Take that back,” Lewis E. Stoyle remarked, testily. “You know as well as I do that Gladstone is the name of a bag. Are you by any chance insinuating that my son is a bag of wind?” Mr. Stoyle crawled under the table and yelled “Come down here, you bum, and see what happens to you.” Eager hands dragged Mr. Stoyle onto his feet and brushed him off. Explanations were immediately forthcoming and peace was restored shortly. The toastmaster cancelled his hurried call for the police and an excellent entertainment followed.

Everett Stoyle has had a pretty rugged three weeks. The minstrel show and Ev’s exams came together, a situation that would have dismayed anyone who was not a son of Lewis E. Stoyle. Let’s take the minstrel show first. Sensing with remarkable acumen (inherited from guess who) half way through the rehearsal period that things weren’t going very well, Ev mounted the platform during a rehearsal and gave out with a few opinions. A hushed silence fell upon his audience when he finished and some of the more delinquent girls and boys cried into their Coca Colas. Ev laid out a program for the gang to follow, took over the sale of tickets and the program (as well as the sale of candy), resigned from the chorus (to the disgust of all the girls present), elected himself as assistant stage manager and proceeded to contribute considerably to the success of the show. Ray Warmington (that guy gets around, doesn’t he) called for Ev to take a bow at the end of the program Monday night but Ev was thirty feet above the stage manufacturing snow for a special scene and decided not to jump down.

While these activities were going on, Ev managed to get in a bit of studying with noble results. He wound up with an average of 87.3. After the last exam had been taken, Ev went to see “Where’s Charlie.” May we note, in passing, that he didn’t go alone? It should be mentioned n passing also, that Dick’s interpretation of “The Thing” as an end song in the minstrel show scared several old ladies into hysteria and the situation looked serious until some smelling salts were found.

Mrs. Lewis E. Stoyle has slipped her trolley. Seems she got interested in making Oriental rugs and can’t think of anything else. She was aided and abetted in the beginning by Mr. Stoyle who, for the first time in his life, is beginning to doubt his own wisdom. to make one of these rugs you buy a pattern, a needle, and several balls of yarn. Then you thread the needle with yarn and punch said needle through holes in the pattern. This sort of thing seems to fascinate Mrs. Stoyle beyond all reason. Doubt has been expressed in family circles regarding her sanity. “If the men in white coats come after me in the meat wagon can I take my rug with me?” Mrs. Stoyle asked her husband, anxiously, one evening. “Hell of a note if I can’t,” she observed crisply. “I just won’t go.”

Some of her other activities normally participated in by Mrs. Stoyle now take so much of her time that she becomes irritated. For example; last week she got a wave and when it was all over she took one look in the glass, said “Makes me look like a goddam Fiji islander. Where’s my rug?” Last week she had her sewing club girls at the house. Instead of going home around four o’clock they stayed until five thirty. “I love ’em like sixty,” Mrs. Stoyle tartly remarked, “but I wish to God they would go home at a reasonable hour. How in the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress do they expect me to get anything done on my rug. If my husband was home I could understand it but as he wasn’t I can’t understand why the stinkers hung around so long.”

Mr. Lewis E. Stoyle was fairly busy over the weekend. Seems that Ev’s car, formally known as Barkis, had suddenly become as cold to ride in as an ice wagon. Mr. Stoyle solved the problem by using the slide rule for a few moments and then by installing a new thermostat. “Dad is sure wonderful,” Ev remarked when he heard what had happened. Mr. Stoyle smiled in assent.

“Hell and damnation! What’s got into my Mixmaster?” Mr. Stoyle heard these words one morning last week. Mrs. Stoyle couldn’t make orange juice with her Mixmaster and had to go back to doing it by hand. This, of course, took longer and left her less time to work on her rug. She was irritated. Mr. Stoyle sighed and took the machine down cellar and took it apart. It looked quite complicated. He decided to leave it alone and consult with Steve Bagnell at the first convenient opportunity. Said opportunity arose Saturday morning and Mr. Stoyle interviewed Mr. Bagnell. “They’re too complicated for me,” Mr. Bagnell said, “Send it back to the factory.”

Mr. Stoyle went home and thought hard for about twenty minutes. Then he went down cellar and fixed it himself. “You’re wonderful,” Mrs. Stoyle said. “Aint I though,” Mr. Stoyle remarked.

Mr. Stoyle is planning to find a good cooking school and take lessons. He said he had got so he could run a vacuum cleaner in a satisfactory manner but he was a little weak in the culinary department. “I guess I’d better get prepared,” he said. “If things keep on as they are going now Mrs. Stoyle will want to spend all her time with that rug and someone will have to get the meals.” At this remark Ev broke into a cold sweat. Dick hasn’t spoken for three days.

Weather: It doesn’t bother us any at this time of the year. The heck with it.

Everett Stoyle, the demon druggist, has practically shot his bolt mentally. He has been studying for exams the past week and has managed to cram so much information into his head that his hair sticks out like a porcupine. Like most people, Ev’s head can only take so much and the limit was reached last night. A night’ sleep was the only thing that saved the old cerebellum from a complete bust. Tonight, with the end in sight, Ev was quite chipper and practically dominated the conversation at the supper table. This may sound like quite a feat but the truth is, Dick was not at home. Bowling alleys, motion picture theatres and other places of amusement had better watch out tomorrow evening. Something will happen after Ev passes in his answers to the last examination.

Complaints have been received at 72 Taylor Street from various and sundry people. Seems that Ev bought the old car a new horn a few weeks ago. He drives along the Fenway on the way into school mornings in a reasonable fashion until some slow poke dawdles in front of him. Ev then sneaks up real close and gives out with the new horn which has a loud, tart, peremptory squawk. Various things happen immediately. Some drivers pull over to the side of the road, stop and get out and loo up and down the highway. Others put on speed in an amazing fashion. A few glance back to see if it is a Greyhound bus or diesel locomotive that has somehow strayed off the tracks. When they see Ev beaming in the old Model A, they get so mad they become helpless and just sit and fume at the wheel. Some doubt has been expressed that Registrar King will allow such goings-on to continue much longer.

Dick Stoyle, other son of that sterling character, Lewis E. Stoyle, made a speech tonight at a dinner held in Masonic Temple, Quincy. Seems the Masonic brethren have a notion to buy back their temple from the bank and the dinner was held to stir up enthusiasm for the project. Archibishop Cushing was not present. Dick participated as Maser Councilor of the DeMolay. Reports of his talk stagger the imagination. Strong men wept, several women fainted and had to be carried out and some of the few children present wet their pants. As far as that goes, one excitable woman — but never mind, this is a family newspaper. Loud cries of approval swept the hall as Dick concluded his talk and the success of the venture seems assured.

Mrs. Lewis E. Stoyle, wife of one of the brainiest men in Wollaston, has been pretty busy. The Wollaston Congo ran a fair and Mrs. S decided to make some candy. One of the concoctions turned out to be Turkish Paste, a weird greenish mess just a little bit harder than axle grease. Sunday afternoon Mrs. S shut up the house, pulled down the curtains, turned off the radio, said a short prayer and started in to reduce the mess into little squares dusted with powdered sugar. She started in calmly enough but first couldn’t get the stuff out of the pan. After she got it finally out of the pan she couldn’t get it off the spoon. using another spoon didn’t help a bit. Like a child with both hands smeared with molasses trying to get rid of a feather. She tried holding it in one place with one foot but her shoe got all sticky and when she got tired and stood up, the shoe stuck to the rug and she couldn’t move. Almost upset the table trying to pull her foot off the rug. Giving a gigantic heave, Mrs. S pulled her foot right out of her shoe and sat down abruptly. At this point Mr. Stoyle wandered in and in his usual cheery manner asked “What’s going on? Playing a new game?” “Damn it to hell,” Mrs. Stoyle said, “will you get the hell out of here.” All this commotion woke up Folly, the Stoyle mascot and general nuisance, and she strolled in to see what was happening. She spied the shoe stuck to the rug and leaped for it. It wasn’t any time at all before she had eaten all the paste, the shoe and a good sized hole in the rug. It is generally felt that the dog is not too strong, mentally.

Lewis E Stoyle and Folly

Along about twelve o’clock, Mrs. Stoyle finally worried the past into a presentable form and sold it at the fair the next day for thirty-eight cents.

Mr. Lewis E. Stoyle, who has mentioned in a modest manner in these pages from time to time, is thinking of going to theological school. “Always have been interested in the ministry,” he says.When the news spread around Wollaston the reaction was amazing. Ray Warmington said, “He would be an asset to any church.” Mayor Burgin remarked “I would go to church myself (on rainy days) if I knew that Lew was going to preach.” Otto Strockheimer, the station agent said, “He could save many a soul if he put his mind to it.” Countless other citizens made similar remarks and two Boston radio stations tried to sign Mr. Stoyle up for fifteen minute talks at 5:45 in the morning.

The mere though of getting up that early, coupled with the disturbing fact that if he preached sermons he would have to go to church to do it, utterly dismayed Mr. Stoyle and at last reports he has given up the whole idea. And a good thing too. A world full of sturdy, upright, outstanding characters that would develop under Mr. Stoyle’s teaching would be a dreary place in which to live.

Mr. Lewis E. Stoyle, considered by those whose opinions really count as the most exemplary character in Wollaston and possibly the United States, now that Lincoln is dead, has been helping his wife with the spring cleaning which has lasted well into the summer.

A number of interesting things have happened. To begin with, Mr. Stoyle bought his wife a new vacuum cleaner with most amazing suction powers. It was originally his idea to send her out with it, say two or three days a week, in the hope that she might pick up a little small change; but something went wrong somewhere along the line and this idle dream never materialized. Rather than have the machine stand idle day after day Mr. Stoyle suggested that the closets be thoroughly cleaned and sprayed and also all the clothes.

Figuring that this would be a good way to keep the old man from hanging around street corners whistling at the girls, Mrs. Stoyle agreed to the suggestion. One or two awkward situations developed. Folly, a small beagle hound who owns the Stoyles, turned up missing the first day the cleaning started. A frenzied hunt developed nothing and Mr. Stoyle finally suggested putting an ad in the local paper. “What the hell,” Mrs. Stoyle said crisply. “The pup can’t read. What good would that do?” Just at that moment, at that impasse, as the really good writers say, a slight scratching sound was heard. Mr. Stoyle, always quick to think and act in an emergency, took the top off the cleaner and lifted out the pup. With the exception of being about four inches longer, she seemed unharmed and as pesky as ever.

Mr. Stoyle started vacuuming the big closet in son Everett’s room after the clothes had been taken out and placed on the bed. Some of the clothes turned out to be somewhat surprising. Among other things there was a uniform (blue) with a funny looking campaign hat. Inside the hat was written, in a bold hand, “General U.S. Grant.” Several hoop skirts (with bustles), an automobile duster; complete with goggles, veil and gauntlet gloves, a letter from General Burgoyne offering to surrender to Cap Huff and an old spinning wheel were found. These were given to the Salvation Army. After Mr. Stoyle finished vacuuming the ceiling, walls and floor Mrs. Stoyle stepped in the closet to view the results. “Godalmighty!” she exclaimed, “It’s a board floor. I thought all the time it was a dirt floor. Am I surprised and pleased.”

Some of the clothes taken out were a bit on the dusty side so Mr. Stoyle thought he would try the cleaner on them. Much to his surprise it sucked all the buttons off the suits and unraveled two rayon dresses before he could shut it off. It was decided to spray all the woolen clothes as a moth preventive and all went well until Mrs. Stoyle got confused and filled the spraying jar with a starch solution she had on the kitchen shelf. This resulted in a saving of hangers as most of the clothes now stand on the floor by themselves.

Dick Stoyle has noticed that his friends are friendlier than ever. Word has got around that he has bought a new car. The police have been alerted and it may be just a coincidence that speed traps have sprung up all over our fair city.

Everett Stoyle, the embryo druggist, after thinking about it for three weeks threw caution to the winds the other day and got himself a whiffle. It would not be stretching the truth too much to say that this action has caused talk.

L.E. Stoyle, talented editor of this outstanding example of journalism, bought a suit last week. Mrs. Stoyle fainted dead away when she heard about it and had to be revived with a short of Old Raven. When she came to she expressed herself quite forcibly. “Hell of a note,” she said. “I haven’t had a new pair of pants since Grover Cleveland died. Hate to think how I shall suffer when winter comes and have to take that dog of mine out in the cold breezes. Does anybody know where I can get a burlap bag? I’m real handy with the needle and I could make myself some pants if I’m driven to it. And it looks as if I was going to be.”

Mrs. Stoyle is leading a rather harried existence these days. Seems that when she lies down for a bit of a rest her Beagle puppy, which looks intelligent but is a long ways from it, hops onto the bed with her. After a few preliminary scratches and a brief hunt for fleas, the pup nestles down in Mrs. Stoyle’s hair. Sooner or later she (the pup) gets to itching and proceeds to cure said itching by a bit of scratching with the hind leg. Only trouble is, she gets herself and Mrs. Stoyle confused. So far Mrs. S has escaped with a few slight scalp wounds and three fleas.

Richard Stoyle expects to attend a DeMolay conclave in Swamscott over the weekend. Going to be gone from Friday noon until Sunday night. There will be woe on Granger street.

Everett Stoyle bough an electric razor some time ago. People are beginning to wonder why. Some think he is trying to grow a beard because the Dodgers lost; others hold to the theory that it was a nice razor and he liked to have it around but just can’t bring himself to use it. May get it dull.

L.E. Stoyle and Kennedy’s store are in the same predicament. Both of them are wondering who is going to pay for his suit.

ART DEPARTMENT

A new engraving from the pens of Messrs. Currier and Ives has just come to this office. At first glance it appears to be a picture of the celebrated mare Pocahontas pacing a mile in the unprecedented time of 2.17-1/2. A careful examination of the picture shows several defects. There is no whiffletree and no traces which leads one to wonder how the mare can drag the four wheeler. All four feet of the mare are off the ground yet you can count all the spokes in the four wheels; a remarkable achievement. The driver is said to be James M. Mann, Esq. but anyone who fought through the Civil War can tell at a glance that he is General Grant in his younger days. One might think that the mare and driver went on to win the race but nothing could be further from the truth. Because the driver, General Grant, is looking right at you and is paying no attention to his horse, a child can tell what really happened. The mare, who was very hungry, shot off to the right and headed for the barn and a dish of oats. General Grant continued up the track about fifty feet on his face and came in last. He wore a full beard ever afterwards to hide the scars.

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on December 20, 2010 at 11:35 AM
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It would suit the editor of this publication – known from coast to coast – if things didn’t happen so fast. What with his spring planting yet to be done, indoor painting not yet finished, speeches to make up and down the New England coast, said ed can’t seem to find the time to get out and garner the news as once he did.

One or two insignificant items have cropped up and, as usual the ed is way behind in his art department.

Mrs. Lewis E. Stoyle is spending considerable time trying to housebreak a Beagle puppy. Every so often Mrs. S announces to the world that she really thinks she is making some progress with the pup only to step into the next room into a mess, usually with both feet. Mr. S has been requested to buy another wash pail and the twins were sent out to beg rags from the neighbors as the Stoyle supply has long since disappeared. “My floors haven’t been so clean since I can remember,” Mrs. S confided to a neighbor. “The damn dog has better elimination than a loose goose, I do believe,” she continued. “Keeps me on my knees a good deal of the time.” We learn from unimpeachable sources deemed to be reliable that the neighbors are getting up a committee to look into Mrs. S’s sanity. The men in the white coats with the nice big, comfortable riding meat wagon may be along almost any time now.

Everett Stoyle finished his first year at Pharmacy College Friday. This was a big relief to Ev and, he says, to the college.

Dick Stoyle still remains at the top of his class at Hickox and it won’t be long now before he winds up in class one. His teachers must have faith in him because he is going to graduate before his marks warrant it. A situation like this should be investigated.

Mr. Lewis E. Stoyle, that sterling character of Wollaston, got his name in most of the Boston papers last week as well as the Quincy Patriot Ledger. Seems he was elected president of a new club in the Federal Reserve Bank of Boston called the Twenty-Five Year Club, an organization consisting of those who have lasted in the venerable institution for that number of years. Upon his election Mr. Stoyle tossed his crutches away, rose from his wheel chair and made a stirring speech of acceptance. “I was framed,” he said.

ART DEPARTMENT

The latest work of Messrs. Currier and Ives to reach the Argus office is entitled “American Forest Scene,” sub-title “Maple Sugaring.” It depicts the laziest bunch of people the ed has seen for some time. There is an open-faced hut made of logs set down in a weird sort of forest. None of the trees have any branches that show in the picture but they do have one or two sap buckets hanging on them. This is really a useless gesture because nobody is paying any attention to them. There are nineteen people in the picture and only two of them are doing anything but gab, gab, gab. One man is driving a pair of oxen; why nobody knows. Another chap, in his shirtsleeves with snow on the ground (probably dead by now from pneumonia) is emptying a bucket of nothing into a barrel. His heart isn’t in his work, however, as he is ogling a woman sitting on a buffalo robe thrown over a log. A bunch of steam rises from a whopping kettle sitting on a roaring fire. A woman is sitting on the ground back to the fire and about two feet away. She ought to be hotter than a bunch of Chinese firecrackers but she is all wrapped up in heavy clothes and a head bonnet. A man stands back of this woman with a knife in one hand and a stick of wood in the other. It is quite apparent that he has been whittling but from the expression on his face the woman is not long for this world. You can almost see him trying to figure out just where would be the best place to slip the knife, between the third and fourth or fourth and fifth ribs. I imagine she is the gabby sort and is due for a slight reprimand.

There are a number of small pieces of yellow stuff cooling on snow gathered in dishes stuck around here and there. Probably maple sugar candy hardening. Nobody is touching any so I suppose it is still soft. When it gets hard enough to eat I will let you know.

Messrs. Currier and Ives have been kind enough to send the Argus editorial rooms a copy of one of their latest productions and a very busy scene it is. It is called “The Levee – New Orleans” and your editor had no idea there were goings-on down south, at least not such active ones.

There are at least over a dozen Robert E. Lee steamboats tied up at the wharf; all but three of them belching smoke at a terrific rate – probably think they’re in Pittsburgh. Why they have a fire at all is difficult to determine inasmuch as they aren’t going anywhere and it is certainly warm enough not to need heat for bodily comfort. Innumerable bales of cotton are scattered over the wharf, some of them making ideal beds for tired negroes to go to sleep on. One negro has been sleeping all day and has just struggled to his feet for a look around. He doesn’t seem too happy over what he sees and it is a good bet that he will shortly sink back for some more shuteye.

In the immediate foreground two men are standing; one is dressed in white pants with a long-tailed blue coat and a straw hat; the other seems to be wearing a dignified Prince Albert. He lays his hand on the other man’s shoulder and it is easy to see why. The first man has a bunch of white flowers in his hands and no doubt has the intention of presenting them to his wife-not in the picture-because of the things he called her at breakfast that morning. The other man is, of course, advising him to do no such thing. “Makes you look as if you were in the wrong,” he says earnestly. “Let her go pick posies by the side of the road, or even in the woods and swamps where alligators might grab her,” he says. “How do you know she even likes flowers,” says he, “you never gave her any before. Take my advice,” he says, “get your money back on the flowers and we’ll visit a spot I know where they-all have some right good corn liquor.” (He was a southerner of course, and had to talk that way whether he wanted to or not.)

Well, reading between the lines from little clues scattered here and there throughout the picture it seems that the first man did as he was advised – he didn’t know his advisor was a single man – and the both of them got glassy-eyed in about an hour. His conscience finally got the better of him and he shook off his fast friend and went home to his wife only to find a note on the dining room table beside a can of beans. “I’ve been told that arsenic has been put in these beans,” it read. “I wish you would eat them and find out. Neighbor Butler and I have shoved off for California on our bicycles. So long, you stinker.” I guess some of those southerners are fiery people and hard to get along with.

Probably this whole scene was drawn to anticipate the PWA. You never saw so many people standing around doing nothing, some of them quite gracefully. Several teams of donkeys, or perhaps I should say mules, are making half-hearted attempts to draw bales of cotton from one spot on the wharf to another which is a silly thing to do. (Editor’s note: The pup has just come upstairs and is trying to help me typewrite with indifferent success. I gave up at this point and am now taking over again tonight – May 11).

Two negresses are standing together with huge baskets of washing on their heads. They are talking fit to repeat so we will skip them. A man is pushing an empty wheelbarrow very energetically right out of the picture. He is muttering to himself and looks as though he might be interesting. I am curious as to what he is up to so shall follow him. So long.

The walls of the Argus office have been decorated the past few months by a series of new lithographs donated by Messrs. Currier and Ives and we feel that we would be amiss in our duty if we failed to describe these beautiful examples of the printer’s art to our readers. Some of our readers may be balmy enough to buy one or more of these prints. They may be obtained cheap for a dozen eggs, a suit of last winter’s underwear (red preferred), a bundle of old newspapers or copies of the National Geographic magazine.. If none of these methods of exchange are handy, coin of the realm will suffice.

The first print is entitled “Going to Church.” Oddly enough there is a white church right smack in the middle of the picture. It seems to be set down in a sort of clearing in the woods; as a matter of fact, the parsonage is in the woods, only one end of the house is visible. This, of course, is made to order for the minister’s daughter as we learn, via the grapevine, that she sneaks out after dark and carries on. One more cross for the minister to bear and he doesn’t look a bit rugged from here.

The scene, we forgot to mention, is laid in winter and, strange as it may seem to the uninitiated, quite a few of the congregation are headed churchward in sleighs. Practically all the drivers are standing up, probably because they hear the choir rehearsing “Stand up, stand up, for Jesus.” The carriage shed by the kirk is already filled and the latecomers have to leave their horses tied to trees and fences outside. Not that they ever intended to take them into church, you understand, or don’t you?

A few unfortunate souls are trudging through the snow on foot, although, come to think of it, it would be difficult to trudge any other way. One man is all by himself and it is said in the village that he goes to church to get away from his wife. “Going to get talked to wherever I go,” he said, “and I get tired of sopranos.” Two figures, sex undetermined from this distance, are standing to the right of the doorway to the church facing each other and holding hands. This will bear further investigation which it won’t get.

There is only one thing out of character in the whole picture and that is the figure of a man running. Not only is he running but he is running toward the church. No satisfactory explanation of this action can be obtained as no irate wife, no sheriff, no constable, no irritated father with shotgun or anything else can be seen. It is believe that he was drawn into the picture for the purpose of confusing everybody. The purpose was successful. Messrs. Currier and Ives, when questioned on the subject, say they have no idea how he got in.

There are eighteen people in the picture, some in sleighs, some walking or trudging if you prefer, and some standing on the church steps trying to get up nerve to go in. Their names are Smith. There are six horses in the picture in various states of fatigue. Their names are Dobbin. There are no dogs discernible, probably because the snow is too deep. You can’t even see them on the pedestrians.

(Editors note: A search online for a print by Currier & Ives called “Going to Church” has been unsuccessful which could lead one to believe that Grampa either got the artists or the print title wrong OR that the print is unknown/unavailable.)

(Additional Editors note: Aha! It would appear that the artist of the Currier & Ives print was not Messrs. Currier & Ives but was actually George Henry Durrie who was an artist for them. A reproduction is provided here for your viewing pleasure.)

Mr. Lewis E. Stoyle, 72 Taylor Street, thought some about going to church Sunday. This mental consideration regarding his spiritual welfare did him a world of good and he has been a better citizen in every way since — if such is possible.

Richard Stoyle has been suffering from a slight touch of gangrene on his face. A visit to Doc Sawbones resulted in quite a change in Richard’s general routine. About half his diet was chucked out the window as he had to give up such staple food as pate de fois gras, canapes, Lobster Newburg, anchovies, birds’ nest soup and kumquat jelly. The results, however, have been startling. Richard’s face has smoothed up unbelievably and as we go to press he has received 14 offers to go into the movies, 3 to advertise shaving lotions, one to become a salesman for a “Your Face is Your Fortune” company and 2 to model Arrow shirts. Richard turned down all offers received. “I’ve first go to finish school and brush up on my Sanskrit,” he said.

Mrs. Lewis E. Stoyle is quite active these days. For one thing, Richard’s diet threw her into a tizzy. “What I can dream up to take the place of that there kumquat jelly is beyond me,” she said. “However, I suppose I’ll think of someting.” (Ed. note. She came up with parboiled frogs legs flavored with paprika, parsley and peppermint.)

During the past two weeks Mrs. Stoyle has been to several club meetings including the DeMolay Parents Club (“a very worthy group but stupid as hell,” she said). She also had one club meeting at her home. “Damn near fell flat on my puss when I tripped on the dining room rug,” she archly observed. At the most, Mrs. Stoyle hasn’t been in a church kitchen but once in the last month. “Got fed up with ’em,” she said, “if you will forgive the pun.”

Everett Stoyle wound up last week a mental wreck. Seems he had exams every day and, although he thinks he pulled through most of them quite satisfactorily the subject of English threw him for the length of the field. “I can remember when I had trouble with the alphabet,” he said.

Word has been received that Judith Stoyle has been studying a text book on meats. “Gives me food for though,” she says. “I sling it over my shoulder as I hoof it to class and although the author does seem to ham it up at times I think careful study will enable me to bring home the bacon.”

“It’s a fat book, full of juicy information, although somewhat raw in places,” she continued. “However, when class is over I take it on the lamb for my sorority house. There’s no use beefing about things you can’t help and I guess I’ll be able to get through the course all right. I must admit, though, that I take quite a ribbing from my roommates on the subject.”

Thanks for writing, Judith. The Argus is always happy to hear from its readers, no matter where they are or what they are doing.

Things have quieted down somewhat at 72 Taylor Street. For a time back it was different. To begin with Richard Stoyle came home with a report card that put him smack on the Dean’s list and there was much congratulation and excitement. Rival newspapers sent reporters and camermen for interviews and it looked for a time as though Richard would not get time to do his homework.

Shortly after this period of unrest died down Everett Stoyle popped in with his report card which listed a string of A’s and B’s in a number of subjects that even his dad would have difficulty in mastering — without a little studying, that is. More reporters, more cameramen, more interviews.

At last things quieted down and it began to look and sound peaceful around the place when Mrs. Lewis E. Stoyle started a sort of poll among the neighbors that put the whole section of Wollaston in a tizzy.

(Granddaughter’s side note: Okay — this next section seems quite silly and a little bit insulting even by my low standards and I’m not completely sure what was going on in Grandpa’s mind at the time he wrote this. I debated whether to leave it out entirely since it doesn’t seem to fit with the rest of the letter but decided to keep the letter complete. I wonder if Gram ever read any of these and if she did what she thought — ah well, we’ll never know will we? So I will put this odd section within quotes so as to distinguish it from the rest of the letter).

“Seems that Mrs. Stoyle checked up on the calendar one night and found out that to the best of her knowledge and belief she hadn’t taken a bath since the week before last. Not one to act suddenly without due thought and reflection she asked the twins what they thought. Both being tactful and diplomatic lads they said that as far as they were concerned they were not unduly alarmed. Mr. Stoyle was next questioned. He sniffed a bit and said he thought he detected a slight odor but hastily added that he didn’t consider it at all offensive. This provoked Mrs. Stoyle to the point of scouring the neighborhood and it was really quite a sight to see her going up and down the street, knocking on doors and asking the bewildered neighbors, when they opened the doors, if they noticed anything. Two women, very uncooperative, slammed the door in Mrs. Stoyle’s face and another, not in the best of health, fainted dead away and had to be fed oxygen by the Fire Department. One man, who shall be nameless, suggested that she leave him alone and try the Board of Health. Pretty well worked up by this time Mrs. toyle suddenly called off her poll and went home and took a long soak with a generous application of Swan (adv.) soap. After it was over she said “I can’t remember when I have felt so good. Sometime before Christmas I guess I’ll wash my hair.””

NATURAL HISTORY NOTE

Speaking before the combined Ladies’ Aid of forty-seven South Shore churches recently, Mr. Lewis E. Stoyle told a story to illustrate the old saying, “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

“Years ago, when I was a young lad on the farm, an old neighbor of mine told me that the reason there were so many stones on the farm that had to be picked up every year was because the big stones had babies. They had big families too, he said, and that’s why every time the field is plowed you have to pick so many small stones before the planting can be done.

“I was young then,” Mr. Stoyle admitted, “and in my simple way I believed him. I must have been just a bit doubtful, however, because I set out to prove his statement. We had an old hen on the farm at that time that was quite a pet. Her name was Cluckie and she was a little on the dumb side.

I selected a dozen stones a little larger than eggs, built a nice nest for Cluckie and put the stones under her to hatch. Shows how dumb she was because she started right in, just as if they were eggs. Along about the second week I noticed that her bill was getting shorter and I became alarmed. Every day after that I checked her and in another week she hadn’t any bill at all. I went outside the hen house and peeked through the window to try and find out what was going on. Nothing happened for a while and then she stood up and began to turn the stones with her bill, just as a hen turns her eggs so they will be warmed evenly. You can see what happened. The stones were a lot heavier and more difficult to move than eggs and she had worn her bill right off while performing this maternal instinct.

Of course, you can see how it all came out. Without a bill she couldn’t pick up any food and within a week or so she wasted away and died. As I remember it, we buried her under the apple tree and put up an old shingle as a marker. I supposed it’s gone now.”

From sources we deem to be reliable we learn that Miss Judith Stoyle spent the weekend in New York City, making several interesting purchases while there. Perhaps the most important was the Brooklyn Bridge which she was able to buy for a song. Being unable to sing, however, Miss Stoyle negotiated the purchase only after persuading an innocent bystander to do her yodelling for her. “I thought it would be nice to have in case I wanted to leap off a high place sometime,” she said. Miss Stoyle expects to be paroled from her present incarceration early in September. After her experience in New York we wonder if she is quite ready for parole.

Miss Mutie Tilloch, Miss Stoyle’s hostess for the weekend, returned to her position in Connecticut a physical and mental wreck, let alone having had a serious blow dealt to her spiritual welfare. “Am I glad to get back her,” she is reported to have said. “From now on I’ll let the cow nursers go sightseeing by themselves.”

Mrs. Lewis E. Stoyle, 72 Taylor Street, is a sensitive soul and can catch on to what is going on around her as quickly as anyone. Consequently, after she had noticed women stopping on the street and whispering to each other and the egg man and the paper boy averted their eyes when talking to her she sensed what was wrong right away. She beat it right into Filene’s and got herself a haircut. “Hell’s bells,” she said, “I can take a hint as well as anybody.” As a gesture of defiance Mrs. Stoyle also had her hair washed. “That ought to hold the stinkers for a while,” she observed delicately.

Everett Stoyle and friend Charles Watson visited the Littlehales at Onset Sunday. They went down in Charles’ Chevrolet getting home in good season. They consider this to be one of the outstanding feats of the year and have been trying to explain it ever since.

We learn via the underground that Mr. Lewis E. Stoyle has received several tempting offers to write skits for the radio. At last reports he has not made up his mind as he is toying with the idea of racing a midget car at Norwood on Monday nights.

Richard Stoyle slowed down last Thursday night and went to bed shortly after supper. His parents made a mark behind the kitchen door and put the date beside it as some sort of a record.

This is the same Richard Stoyle who is considered by many of his acquaintances as being physically and mentally clean. He gets his physical cleanliness from frequent swim and showers. His mental condition was inherited — from his father.

Barkis, the well known chariot about town is having his innards yanked out and replaced. The surrounding towns have been warned to be on their toes when he gets back on the road. Weymouth and Braintree have added men to their police forces and claim they are prepared for the worst. Mr. Stoyle, the nominal owner of the car who gets a chance to drive it five or ten miles Sunday nights, claims he is going to bust loose and drive to Middletown, Connecticut on September 10. Mrs. Stoyle, ordinarily somewhat of a timid soul when it comes to automobiles, is planning to take a swig of cranberry cordial, blindfold herself and go along. “After all,” she says, “We only live once. Wotthehell.”